


we shouldn't have to try so hard

by mcgarraty



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Orgy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:12:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4125147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcgarraty/pseuds/mcgarraty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in the locker room, after the team brings the Champions League trophy home...</p>
            </blockquote>





	we shouldn't have to try so hard

**Author's Note:**

> i had some trouble figuring out how nickname ter Stegen (ter? mats? marc-andré seemed really long. but marc=bartra so...) ultimately i settled on Ter, which is probably not accurate to what the team really calls him, but honesty i was at a loss. also, there's a lot more angst in this fic than i was planning.

Ney’s drunk, but not enough. Not enough to think Leo will do this, but just enough to try.

Leo is in the corner by the lockers with Masche’s arm around him, a mess of sweat and lips so red they look smeared on. Ney is suffocating against Dani’s chest, drinking champagne in between the rough slide of fingers in his hair. He hardly knows who’s touching him anymore, sees Rafa’s gleaming white-toothed smile, Marc’s slanting cheeks, hears the voices yelling his name and each others’ and _campeones campeones_ , like a stadium echo on repeat. 

The air in the locker room is so thick that it’s gotten hard to breathe, alcohol and elation clouding everything, dissolving boundaries that were hardly ever there to start with. Ney can’t even see through the press of bodies surrounding him, can’t see anything except for Leo across the room, laughing with his head against the lockers, drunk but not drunk enough, which is why Neymar keeps the bottle of champagne in his hand when he leaves the feverish warmth of Dani’s chest and staggers out through the crowd to meet him.

Hands catch him on the way, more ruined voices, but Neymar is too hazy to recognize them now. It’s Leo, all Leo, always Leo, standing in front of him, catching him loosely when Ney stumbles forward and stammers _Leo Leo Leo_ in a whisper that’s supposed to be a chant but sounds prayer-like instead. Masche was standing there too, but now he leaves. 

Neymar’s face falls into Leo’s shoulder, arms tangling with the waist of his shirt, champagne bottle swinging dangerously in one hand and knocking at Leo’s hipbone. Ney can smell him, musk and sweat and adrenaline, feel the slide of his muscles when he shifts his body under Neymar’s weight. 

“Leo,” Neymar says, and turns his head to lick a stripe up his neck, fast and hot before he has a chance to change his mind.

Leo goes very still against him, laughter dying out. He’s got one arm around the back of Ney’s shoulders to hold him upright, fingers pressing into warm skin, but now they loosen suddenly. 

“Ney,” he says, slurring a little but not much. “Ney, you can’t.” 

That’s the beginning of the end if Ney listens, so he doesn’t. Instead, he says, _campeones campeones_ against Leo’s neck, rasping the words out even though his throat is burning. 

“Ney,” Leo says again, tugging on his hair to pull him back, holding him at arm’s length like a rag doll and forcing him to meet his eyes. They’re dark and warning.

The champagne dangles between them and Neymar says, “drink, drink, do it,” before Leo can even speak, pressing the bottle to Leo’s lips so roughly that Leo has to grab it out of his hand. 

“Ney,” Leo says, like it’s the only word he knows. He’s so serious that it’s hardly even real with the way the rest of the locker room sounds behind them, a dozen careless boys (that’s all they are, really) high on victory and each other. 

Leo’s holding the bottle now, a buffer between their bodies. He’s still got one hand on Ney’s shoulder, but it’s pitying, somehow. Ney wants him so much he feels sick to his stomach, a curling wave of nausea that almost turns his vision black. Leo knows. Leo has always known. Once Leo even let him have it, Neymar on his knees in a bathroom, begging, Leo too blissed out from a game to refuse. Neymar blew him on the floor of some shitty stadium men’s room while Leo said his name and came all over his lips. Afterwards Leo told him, _we shouldn’t have, it was a mistake_ , and now Neymar just wants and wants, and doesn’t remember what living was like before, what it felt like to be a whole person. 

“We won,” Ney says, swaying in Leo’s grip. “We won, we won, I dreamed about this, we won, Leo Leo,” and the chant is starting again, the one that sounds like a prayer, so he changes it quickly to: “drink, drink, come on,” and for some reason Leo does it, lips sealing on the mouth of the bottle and sucking it down. 

Ney watches the way Leo’s throat moves when he swallows, wants to touch it with his tongue. Instead, he slings his arm around Leo’s shoulder, using his height to lean down, lean hard like he needs the support, like he’ll fall without it, which might be true anyway. Leo staggers a little and the bottle slips from his mouth, wetting his chin and neck with champagne, sticking the front of his shirt to his chest. Ney laughs against him, high and uncontrollable and Leo laughs too because he’s drunk enough for that, at least. 

“Please,” Neymar says, and when Leo turns his head, Ney kisses him. Leo’s lips are slick with champagne, sliding perfectly against his own. It only lasts a second before Leo pulls away.

“Ney,” he stammers, almost angry, verging on another denial. 

Neymar shakes his head. “You want me,” he says. “You want me. I know you want me.”

Leo doesn’t say no, can’t, and so Ney reaches down and pulls their bodies together, flush and burning, makes their hips collide. Leo’s half-hard, of course he is, and his breath catches at the touch, trembling a little but not as much as Neymar is. 

“You want me,” Ney says, burying his head in Leo’s neck and gasping into his skin, moving against him.

“Yeah,” Leo says, like it breaks him, and then his hands are in Neymar’s hair, dragging him up and kissing him for real and it’s so good Ney thinks he could die from it, lose everything and not want it back. Leo’s tongue is in his mouth and their hips are rutting together and Ney can’t breathe but he doesn’t want to. 

Leo flips them so that Neymar’s back against the lockers. The rough metal presses into his bare skin, scraping out a bloody hollow at the base of his spine every time Leo pushes against him, but somehow that’s good too, it’s right, because he needs to understand the pain now, since it’s all he’ll have left when this is over. 

“Tell me something pretty,” Neymar says, because he can’t exactly say _tell me you love me_.

Leo pulls back a little, dark eyes on fire. His hair is stuck to his forehead, cheeks red as paint spots. His fingers curve against Neymar’s jaw like ownership.

“You’re beautiful,” Leo says. “You’re everything, you’re so good.”

Neymar’s body shudders in time with the words, making Leo gasp again, swallowing down noises where their hips slide and rub and chafe. Ney feels desperate, turns his head to the side and catches Leo’s fingers in his mouth. When he licks at them Leo starts to move in earnest, colliding their bodies together against the locker wall like teenagers. They don’t even have their jeans undone. 

“You’re beautiful,” Leo says again, lost in the daze of it, pupils blown, eyes glassy. “You’re so beautiful, Ney, _God_.”

And Neymar thinks _finally finally_ , almost vindictive in his triumph, in his pain. He’s sliding against Leo like something mad, an animal or a lovesick kid, making noises he can’t control. It could end right here for both of them but Neymar won’t settle, won’t let it be over yet. Leo doesn’t get to survive this so easily. 

Neymar opens his lips and Leo’s fingers slip to the edge, catching spit. “Fuck me,” he says. 

Leo doesn’t even hesitate and it’s the most glorious moment of Neymar’s existence.

“Okay,” Leo says. He kisses him again, hard and slippery, teeth everywhere, and Neymar is frantic, holding himself upright with arms locked around the back of Leo’s neck, otherwise he’d already be on the ground. 

Leo gets a hand between them, tugging at the zipper of Neymar’s jeans, cupping him through his boxers. Ney slashes his head to the side, scraping his cheek on the locker when Leo touches him, because it’s all-consuming, like a doorway opening in front of him and a tunnel of white light leading him to eternity. 

Leo turns Neymar’s head back, feeling for the scrape, and murmurs, “Careful, Ney.” 

But Neymar can’t be, he doesn’t have that luxury. He rubs against Leo’s palm and says: _more more come on Leo fuck me_. Lashes thick with sweat, lips raw.

Leo laughs under his breath, kisses him to shut him up, and they can’t control themselves now. Ney feels it like a spreading fever, sweeping them both under. In a little while Leo will come and after that he won’t need Neymar anymore and he’ll say it was a mistake and he won’t look at him, and Neymar will pay for it every single day but right now he’s going to make it worth it, he’s going to get what he begged for. Neymar bucks his hips up and Leo keeps kissing him, reaching down to unbutton his own jeans, and somewhere along the way the champagne bottle slides out of Leo’s grip and smashes on the ground. 

The noise is so loud it makes Ney’s head throb. He jerks back from the kiss, slamming against the wall. Then the silence hits. The locker room is like a vacuum: not only quiet but negative sound, sucking all the air away.

Neymar can’t look, doesn’t dare to, but he knows their eyes are all on him, feels it like a thousand pricks of needlepoint on his skin. His teammates are watching him. They’re watching him with a boy. They’re watching him want it. Shame spreads through his body like a disease. He makes a noise, strangled and afraid, and buries his head against Leo’s shoulder, wetting the cloth of his shirt with his mouth. Leo’s hand comes up and seals on the back of Neymar’s neck like a defense, a protection from the eyes of the crowd.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs. “It’s all right.”

Neymar’s head is spinning like he’s about to pass out. _They will hurt you for this they will hate you._

Leo’s fingers, stroking just below his hairline. “It’s all right.”

Neymar feels the shift when Leo turns to face the room, but his grip on Neymar’s body doesn’t loosen. Leo’s watching them, Ney realizes. He’s staring back. 

For a long time nobody speaks. Ney can’t even be sure they’re breathing. The locker room was in revels a minute ago but now it’s a wasteland. Neymar has turned them all to stone. Only Leo is real, those hot fingers stroking at the back of his neck, making Ney shiver and twist against his shirt, biting fabric even though he needs desperately to stay still, vanish, disappear completely.

Finally, someone says, “You didn’t have to stop.”

It’s Dani’s voice, and Neymar feels a spike of relief because of all of them, Dani understands. He found Ney once in the bathroom at Neymar’s beyond-expensive birthday party, throwing up in the sink after Leo had kissed someone who wasn’t him and the paparazzi snapped the happy couple for the morning papers. Ney had been sick all over the smooth alabaster sink, coughing up alcohol and not much else, half-hard from remembering how Leo had let him cling to him on the dance floor, Neymar’s arms draped everywhere, grinding against Leo from behind before the girl had come up and stolen it all. When Dani found Neymar in the bathroom he was on his knees, wiping spit off his lips and crying without knowing it and Dani had taken him in his lap and let Ney rub against him until he came in his pants gasping _Leo Leo_ like he was 16 instead of barely 23.

So…Dani understands.

“He asked you to fuck him,” Dani says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You didn’t have to stop.” 

The locker room seems to draw breath together and Ney is still not looking, still biting at Leo’s shirt like that will protect him, but he can imagine their faces, his teammates paralyzed by shock.

“Leo,” Dani says, an easy, persuasive thing. “Do it here. It’ll hurt him less.”

Leo hasn’t moved an inch, but Neymar hears someone from the locker room make a noise, halfway between a groan and a strangled laugh. It sounds like Jordi, and Neymar finally gets the courage to look up, raising his head slowly off Leo’s shoulder to glance at the room.

There are two long benches in the center, and his teammates are scattered around them in a fragmented semi-circle, like they’d all fanned out when the champagne broke, separating for a better view. Marc is standing against the lockers to the right with his arms crossed, jaw loose, eyes wide. Dani is in the middle, seated on one of the benches with his legs sprawled out. The heart of calm in the storm. Jordi and Ivan stand a little ways behind him holding flags and party hats in their hands. Jordi has a gnome hat shoved down over his crotch like he wants to hide the bulge, but he’s staring at Neymar unabashed. Suárez is the adult, smiling lowly from the back of the room, more amused than anything. Rafa is by the left wall of lockers next to Ter, and there’s something there, Neymar thinks vaguely, something in the way Rafa is stumbling against that huge, blonde kid, like when they froze up their bodies had been too close to separate. Rafa’s beautiful face is calm and considering. Ter looks blown away.

There’s nobody else to see. Geri and Masche have vanished somewhere, and Neymar is glad of that because it makes Dani the oldest, puts Dani in charge, makes Dani the one that can protect him now. 

“Bring him here, Leo,” Dani says. “Trust me.” 

The room ripples with anticipation. Neymar isn’t sure how that happened, when this became something that was allowed and accepted but he’s so grateful it hurts him. 

Because now Leo is holding onto him with something like a death grip, so tight Neymar believes he might shatter. Every word Dani speaks makes Leo’s fingers press harder into his skin. Neymar is lightheaded with pain and want and euphoria, reveling in the way Leo is touching him like he’s suddenly the most precious thing on earth. And it’s Dani’s voice making him do it. 

“Come on,” Dani coaxes. “Let us see.”

Leo looks back at Neymar, a question. “We can wait,” he murmurs. “We don’t have to do it now. When we’re alone, later—”

“No,” Ney rasps. There is no later. He knows better than that. When they leave this room he loses Leo. They will never be alone in a bed together and Leo will never touch him without being begged. 

“Now, I want it now, just do it,” Ney says roughly. Leo swallows.

“That’s a boy,” Dani says. “Come to the bench.”

Leo strokes Ney’s neck one last time, an almost wistful touch, and slowly, slowly inches his body away. Neymar flinches at the loss of heat, sweat-soaked skin suddenly cold and clammy. He lost his ripped t-shirt ages ago, stands naked from the waist up, jeans hanging low on his hips, unzipped to show boxers. The Brazilian flag clings loosely to his stomach, knotted at his waist. The second Leo’s body is gone, he’s sure he’ll collapse.

“I can’t walk,” Neymar whispers, soft and shy all of a sudden, reaching out for him before he falls. Leo presses back against him quickly, murmuring, _I’m sorry, I’ll take you_. He wraps his arms around Neymar’s hips, ready to lift, but Dani’s says: “Wait.” 

Leo hesitates.

“Help him,” Dani says, talking to someone else. Neymar doesn’t look to see, breathing in Leo like air, Leo like the end of everything.

Someone’s crossing the locker room to stand with them. Whoever it is stops right behind Leo but Leo doesn’t move away, not yet, doesn’t let Neymar go. Neymar loves him, blindingly, destructively, wants to die like this, right here, with Leo clutching him against his chest like a ruined thing that Leo lies to himself pretending he doesn’t need.

“Go on,” Suárez says to Leo, a rumble at his shoulder. “I’ve got him.”

And Neymar, because he hates himself, Neymar says, _go go_ , and pushes at Leo until he backs away. Neymar has to set Leo up to hurt him because this is getting dangerously good, sweeter than he ever let himself imagine, and he doesn’t know how he’ll let Leo go at the end unless he makes Leo cruel. 

Leo steps away and Luis is there in an instant, catching Neymar’s limp body as he sways forward. Neymar has always liked the smell of him, the way his arms sweep Neymar up so easily and press him to his chest. They’ve done it a hundred times on the field, dizzy with the adrenaline of goals and victory. Neymar wraps his legs automatically around Luis, ankles crossings at his back, and Luis is so much bigger than Leo, older and stronger, what Neymar would want for a father if he could choose, and Luis is already cradling him like a child, smiling a little as he carries him to one of the benches in the middle of the locker room. 

Leo’s standing rooted to the spot where they left him, hands balled at his sides like a petulant little kid, dark eyes locked on Neymar. Leo sees people touch Ney every day, over and over, but this is different, this is a new flush on Leo’s cheeks, a new burn in his vision, and it’s jealousy, _God_ , Neymar thinks deliriously, _is it jealousy?_ and Neymar rolls his hips against the hard slab of Luis’s stomach just so be sure. The movement makes Ney whimper involuntarily, makes Luis growl low and clench his arms around him tighter. Makes Leo take one quick step forward, breathing through his nose because his lips are sealed so tight they’ve turned pale. 

Neymar feels spectacular victory, wants to grind on Luis again and again until he comes while Leo watches and wishes for him like he’s wished for Leo every day since the beginning of his existence, since he knew what it was to want someone, since he realized that the girls falling over him in the clubs would never make him feel a thing.

Leo’s eyes are hurting him, shredding up his skin, and Ney grinds a little just for fun, makes Luis squeeze him again and laugh. Then Luis is pulling Neymar’s head down roughly and kissing him. It’s quick and messy, Neymar combing his fingers through black hair, tugging for leverage. A moment later, Luis’s mouth is gone, and his strong arms are lowering Ney onto the edge of the bench near Dani. Luis sinks to his knees as he slides Neymar down.

“Baby,” he says fondly, stroking Neymar’s cheek. He’s grinning that toothy grin, sort of above all of this, but not quite, hard in his jeans from Ney being on him, teasing him like that.

Leo stands still and just watches. 

“Good,” Dani says, from somewhere behind Neymar. “That’s good.” 

Ney feels Dani’s body press up against him, hot bare chest against Neymar’s back. They’re both straddling the bench, Ney on the edge of it with Luis still kneeling between his legs. Neymar’s whole body feels weak, and he sinks back into Dani’s warmth, head lolling on his shoulder. Tattoos blur at the edges of his vision. 

“Dani,” Ney whispers, tired and grateful. He wants to tell him about Leo’s eyes, drilling holes in him from across the room, but his throat feels too tight. 

Dani says, “I know,” anyway. 

Dani runs his fingers lightly over Neymar’s chest, brushing at a nipple. Ney arches and cries out, helpless. Luis laughs between his legs, and Leo takes another shuddering step forward. Ney can’t see it, but he thinks Dani is smiling.

“He’s yours,” Dani tells Leo, hand open to beckon. “Take him.” 

Leo obeys. He moves forward in a jolt, a strange, jittery step so different from his usual grace, and falls to his knees next to Luis, pushing him aside. Neymar’s legs slide open wider, wanting him. Leo looks up from the ground and his eyes are hooded like nothing Neymar has ever seen before, face white as the grave. 

“Get his clothes off,” Dani says. 

Leo reaches up for the waist of Neymar’s jeans, tugs them down over his knees while Dani lifts Ney like a bundle of kindling, clearing the fabric over the swell of his ass. Neymar is naked now, with just boxers and the Brazilian flag, but Leo’s fully dressed.

“Yours too,” Dani commands, reading Neymar’s mind. Leo peels his shirt off in an instant, revealing endless pale skin. His jeans are more difficult because his hands tremble, fumbling the button on the first try. Luis giggles from the sidelines, elbow resting companionably on Neymar’s now-bare knee. His breath tickles at the tender skin on Ney’s thigh, making him shudder, and Dani puts an arm across Ney’s chest to keep him still. 

Leo looks up from where he’s fiddling with his zipper, mouth half open with effort and confusion, panting a little. His eyes flash back and forth between Luis leaning all over Ney, and Dani’s arm slung across Ney’s chest. 

“I told you to take him,” Dani says softly to Leo, teasing at one of Neymar’s nipples again so Ney twitches and strains in his boxers. They’re too tight, making him squirm, and he wants to touch himself but his whole body feels like lead, crippled beyond thinking. Leo’s staring at the outline of Ney’s cock through his boxers, eyes sharp and desperate in their own way. 

Neymar reaches for him with his mind and then somehow with his arms as well, too heavy to move on their own, but finding enough strength to do it for Leo. His fingers brush over the top of Luis’s head and close around empty air, pleading.

“Take him,” Dani tells Leo, for what feels like the hundredth time. 

Leo leans forward and puts his mouth on Neymar’s cock through his boxers. Neymar’s vision goes black for a moment, blood pounding in his temples like the rush of a tide. Leo’s lips are spread open and sucking at cloth and skin below it, spit soaking through Ney’s boxers until they’re dark and sticking. Neymar is writhing in Dani’s arms, head smashed back against his shoulder, fingers finding Leo’s hair and pulling weakly. 

Leo flicks his eyes up but keeps his mouth moving, meets Neymar’s gaze with something black and bottomless that Neymar’s never seen before, like desire for possession or control. Neymar’s hips stutter up to meet Leo’s mouth, wanting the boxers gone, wanting Leo’s lips on his cock without the barrier, but Leo’s hand shoves him back, sweaty fingers against Neymar’s stomach, pressing him harder into Dani. Luis laughs again and crawls his hand up Ney’s thigh to scrape his nails in. It makes Neymar arch more, struggling against the hands holding him in place, and then Leo starts to suck in earnest, tongue lapping up and down Neymar’s cock like he’s trying to taste it through the fabric, and Neymar’s boxers are wet and dragging and his back is scraped raw from the lockers, and he never, never wants this to end.

Then, from the far side of the locker room, someone says, “fuck” and slams a limb against the wall, and Neymar remembers that there’s an audience here too. 

Leo pulls off Ney’s cock, glancing over. It’s Marc against the lockers, but he’s turned his back on them all, body tense and thrumming like a wire about to snap. The noise must’ve been his forehead slamming into the wall, because that’s how he’s standing now, back hunched, fists curled up, legs spread a little apart because he’s hard and he’s scared of it.

“Hey,” Dani says softly. “ _Mírame, hijo_.”

Marc doesn’t budge an inch. Ney can see the way his chest is moving, lurching up and down as he tries to breathe. The back of his neck is slick with sweat, and his cheeks look sunburnt.

“Marc,” Ney says. His voice comes out hoarse, but it’s gentle. 

Marc’s shoulders stiffen. 

“Everything’s okay,” Neymar says, because it’s what he’s been waiting for someone to tell him, too. It’s what he’s been waiting for his whole life. “Whatever you want, it’s okay.” 

Marc lifts his head slowly off the locker and looks back. His eyes are wide and terrified like he doesn’t understand what he’s feeling. He looks so young even to Neymar, who’s always thought of him as somehow already grown. 

“He wants to kiss you,” Dani says, stroking Ney’s forehead. “He’s wanted to for a while.”

Ney nods numbly, seeing the way Marc swallows and shakes at the idea, breath coming so hard Ney’s afraid he’ll choke. Leo watches it all from between Neymar’s knees, hands still flat on Ney’s stomach, pressing like he’s trying to drag something from the skin.

“Come here,” Ney says, motioning to Marc. “Kiss me.”

But Marc still won’t move. His whole back and shoulders are rippling from the tension, raised arches under his t-shirt. But he won’t do it. 

From behind them, Jordi says: “Fuck it, I will.” 

He comes for Neymar in two quick strides, sinking down onto the bench parallel to where Neymar is spread out, pulling it so close that his knees knock against the length of Ney’s leg. When Neymar turns his head, Jordi’s right there, brown eyes bright like crystal, sparked with anticipation. Neymar feels lazy and hot in his gaze, an experiment they’ve both been wondering about for a while. Jordi bites his lip. 

“Kiss him, then,” Luis says impatiently, from somewhere at Ney’s knee.

Jordi’s mouth crashes into his at the same time as Leo puts his lips on Neymar’s cock again, as if Leo wants to punish him for everything by making him come before he can even get his boxers off. 

Jordi is messy when he kisses, probably drunk past caring, tongue everywhere, small hands cupping the back of Neymar’s neck. Neymar has to twist a little to meet him, body curving away from Dani, but sealed in by Leo’s mouth. Jordi slides even closer, knobby knees making crevices in Neymar’s leg. His tongue swipes out to lick at the edge of Neymar’s lips, and he murmurs, “Fuck, yeah, you’re just as good as I thought.”

“He’s perfect,” Leo says, and he sounds dangerous. He has to raise his lips from Neymar’s cock to speak, wiping spit off his chin, and Neymar’s heart is pounding from the feel of it, losing Leo’s mouth but gaining his words.

“Of course,” Jordi says, and laughs, hardly aware of the tension, breath warm and insistent on Neymar’s cheek. Jordi wants to kiss him again but Neymar can’t do it anymore, he’s too caught up in what Leo said, how he said it, and why. 

Neymar reaches a hand down and touches Leo’s forehead, runs his fingers reverently over the bridge of his nose. Leo is still with his lips parted, swollen and slick. His eyes are on Neymar’s, familiar like the one place in a room of strangers that Ney can look and know he’s home. Leo’s hands, hot on Neymar’s stomach, pressed just above the waistband of his boxers. Waiting for something. 

“Leo, please,” Neymar hears himself stammer. “Please please please.”

Leo curls his fingers in the cloth and slowly pulls the boxers down. Dani lifts Neymar again to help, and Jordi reaches in too, their hands tangling on Ney’s lower back, the curve of his ass. Leo fumbles the boxers down over Neymar’s knees and then Luis grabs them, tugs them the rest of the way off and buries his face in the damp cloth. There’s Leo’s spit and Neymar’s sweat and precome and Luis smiles a little when he pulls away, like he’s found something secret in the cloth that they don’t know about, some explanation for their misery and hateful attraction. Luis leans against Neymar’s knee with the boxers dangling from one hand and watches them, watches Ney watching Leo and Leo watching Ney, naked all the way now, Leo watching like he’s hypnotized.

Leo’s gaze is like pressure on Neymar’s cock, better than a hand or mouth, and it brings him closer to the edge, makes him whimper in a way that sounds pitiful even to himself. Distantly, somewhere to the side, he hears Marc breathe in and forget to breathe out. 

“Here,” Dani says to Leo, smirking even in his voice. His fingers drag something up from his duffle on the floor and he hands it to Leo over the spread of Neymar’s legs. “Open him up.”

It’s lube, Ney thinks blankly, but not really, some cream or spray from the training room that Dani’s been carrying around. Leo takes the bottle and looks up through those hooded eyes, but they’re defensive now, almost vulnerable. “I don’t know how,” Leo says. 

“I’ll show you,” someone answers. Neymar can’t quite believe the voice, a low scratch from the other side of the room, one that he recognizes. 

Rafa slinks toward them in a lazy stroll, that Barcelona flag tied like a bandana around his forehead, dark skin glistening in the fluorescent lights. He’s left Ter behind by the lockers, tall body stiff and awed.

“Good boy,” Dani says smoothly, watching Rafa slide down between Neymar’s knees, nudging Leo to the side. 

Rafa takes the lube from Leo, and grins up at Neymar.

“You’ve never done this have you?” Rafa says, almost smug. His fingers slide gently up and down Neymar’s thighs, pressing them apart. Neymar knows Rafa’s going to put those fingers inside him, and it’s all right in principle, but he finds it terrifying now because of how much he wants it and how much he knows it’s going to hurt. Rafa’s smile is teasing with just the tiniest edge, like he knows exactly what Neymar’s thinking. 

“Maybe you tried it once,” Rafa says. “But it scared you and you didn’t get deep enough. Babe,” he breathes, leaning down and licking a line up the skin of Neymar’s thigh. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve taught you how.”

Neymar swallows hard, trembling, and there’s movement in the corner, Ter bringing an arm up to his mouth and biting down like he’s afraid of what sound he’ll make otherwise. Rafa’s eyes go dark. 

“Tilt him back,” he says to Dani, who moves up the bench accommodatingly, dragging Neymar down so he’s lying flat on his back with his head in Dani’s lap. Neymar’s thighs twitch from the exposure, staring up at the ceiling with all their gazes on his naked skin.

“Careful,” Leo snaps, when Rafa brushes a finger over the entrance to Neymar’s hole and Neymar shudders all over.

“He likes it,” Rafa says soothingly. “He’ll like it more when it’s you.”

Neymar doesn’t look for Leo’s expression, can’t sit up enough to get a view. All he knows is the water stained ceiling and the hard lights and Dani’s profile overhead, watching everything, making sure it all fits correctly. 

Rafa has one lube-slick finger pressed against Neymar’s entrance, circling. And Rafa’s right, Neymar tried it once, face first in a mountain of pillows, imagining Leo behind him. But it did hurt and he was scared, body on fire with terrible shame because what if they knew, what if the world knew, God how they would tear him apart. 

But Rafa’s doing it differently, not so eager or harsh, slow circles at the rim of his hole, and Neymar starts to move a little against him, trying to be brave.

“Yeah,” Rafa breathes, and slides his finger in. Neymar winces at the feel of it, something probing him in places where he’s always been empty, but then Jordi is looming over him, saying, “It’s okay, man, it’s okay,” and Neymar finds himself ginning, because Jordi looks dumbstruck and so impressed by all of this and it makes Neymar really _feel_ brave instead of just playing at it. Jordi flicks Neymar’s nipple and rubs himself off lazily against Neymar’s side, smiling back. 

Rafa loosens him up a little at a time, working up to a second finger, but when he slides that in Neymar almost yells in pain and he feels Leo lurch forward against him like he wants to swallow it up, take his hurt away. Then Rafa hits at something deep inside him and Neymar’s voice cracks into begging instead. 

“More,” he gasps out, writhing on the bench. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

Rafa laughs and so does Luis, still dangling off Neymar’s knee to watch. Leo says: “Let me try.”

“No,” says Marc suddenly from the side, the last breath of a dying man. “No no no _no_.” He turns face-first against the lockers in a rush, like he can’t bear to watch what’s happening, because the sight is cracking something inside of him, those rules he taught himself to live by that his body is refusing to follow now. He looks like he’s in pain, desperately hard and trying not to notice, wanting things he’s told himself are forbidden. Slamming his forehead against the lockers until it bruises.

“Stop it,” says Dani sharply, and he sounds so severe that and Marc listens. “Someone bring him here.”

It’s Ivan who moves, coming forward from the back of the room and touching Marc’s shoulder like he’s wounded. They stand still for a moment, not getting closer and not pulling away. Finally, Ivan says: “It isn’t bad.” Those are the words that Neymar has told himself a thousand times over until they blaze like fireworks behind his eyes, a truth that feels like a lie. “Nothing is bad unless you make it like that.”

Marc is crying, body swaying against Ivan’s without seeming to realize. Ivan takes his weight, lets their heads fall together, blonde hair brushing over Marc’s cheek. He’s got a firm arm around Marc’s back, and he turns him carefully to face the room, Marc’s lithe body shaking, so so hard in his jeans. Marc’s head curls into Ivan’s shoulder, hiding from the room even as Ivan walks him forward. Ivan takes him to the bench where Jordi is sitting, and Jordi looks up, gets a handful of Marc’s shirt and tugs childishly. 

“You’re safe,” Jordi says. “Don’t you know that? We’re family.”

Neymar wants to reach out and touch him and tell him he’s brilliant, because Neymar knows exactly what it feels like to hate everything he’s ever been and wanted, only nobody ever tried to heal him up like that. 

Marc drags in a breath and raises his head from Ivan’s shoulder, cheeks stained with tears, perfect jaw trembling. Neymar’s already laid so bare and vulnerable that he doesn’t know how it’s possible for Marc to look like that even more.

“Marc,” Neymar says softly. “Kiss me, please.”

Their eyes meet, and Neymar sees the battle there, like a plea for someone to give him permission. Neymar nods to him as best he can, cheek brushing on the inside of Dani’s thigh where his head is resting, and parts his lips.

Ivan gives Marc a tiny little nudge forward, moving him so his knees bump against the back of Jordi’s bench. Marc glances at Ivan once, gaining courage, letting Ivan’s fingers slide over the back of his neck and into his hair to ruffle it. Slowly, gently, Ivan forces Marc down to his knees on the bench next to Jordi, hunched in on himself, eyes glued to Neymar’s skin. It’s a good start but not quite enough, because Neymar is lying flat in Dani’s lap on the next bench over, too low to be kissable like this, not without making Marc lean so far he’ll fall. Marc hesitates, knowing how he has to move, unwilling to do it on his own. 

“Down,” Jordi says, replacing Ivan’s hand on Marc’s neck with his own, and forcing Marc to climb forward onto the floor. Marc sinks to his knees a second time, shaking so much and chewing his lips like he’s afraid his teeth will chatter if he doesn’t give them something to do. He’s eye-level with Neymar now and the way he looks at him makes Ney tremble too, like he’s being built into something monumental and transformative, the defining moment of someone’s life.

“I just,” Marc says sluggishly, like he’s drugged on something, “She asked me to marry her, but now I just—”

He can’t finish, too wrecked by this, drinking in the sight of Neymar’s naked body like a godsend. _Nothing is bad unless you make it like that_ , Neymar thinks, while Jordi presses Marc’s head down.

Everyone is frozen watching them kiss—even Rafa stops moving his fingers inside Neymar for a moment. It’s so soft at first that it’s almost nothing, Marc brushing his lips over Neymar’s like a whisper, like something unreal, an angel’s kiss. Sometimes Neymar thinks Marc _is_ an angel, but that’s not fair because he wants like a human, and he deserves to have.

Neymar lets him take his time, starting out chaste and teasing, lets him decide. Marc pulls back to look at him after a second, so uncertain that Neymar feels pity, and wonders if this is how he looks with Leo all the time, like some scared, hungry child.

“Again,” Neymar says, and Marc obeys, pressing his lips in harder, responding to the way Jordi’s gripping at the back of his neck. Marc’s mouth starts to open, instinctive, and Neymar slips his tongue in, makes it dirty without meaning to, makes Marc jerk and shudder and reach down to shove the heel of his palm against his cock through his jeans.

“You look so good,” Jordi says, breathless above them, watching pale skin slide against dark, Marc’s fingers coming up to cup at Neymar’s cheek on Dani’s thigh. Marc is fucking up into his own hand without realizing it, getting faster in response to the way Neymar is wriggling against him. Rafa’s moving his fingers inside Neymar again, three this time, nudging at his prostate, and Neymar starts to whine, lips sloppy and loose, gasping the noises into Marc’s mouth.

“Like this,” Neymar hears Rafa say, and he realizes he’s talking to Leo, feels the shift of bodies between his knees as Leo leans in to learn. Then, abruptly, Rafa’s fingers are gone and Neymar is empty and wrenching his body upwards, away from Marc’s mouth and Dani’s lap, propping himself on his elbows to see what’s coming. Leo is sitting back on his heels, two fingers slick and pressing at the inside of Neymar’s thigh, breathing hard. He’s waiting for Neymar to look at him, waiting for a sign that this is right. Neymar flicks a glance down at Marc, who’s swaying in place on the ground, wiping at his mouth where Neymar left it wet, still touching himself. 

“If you can hold out, I’ll blow you,” Neymar tells him, off-hand and staring at Leo again. 

Marc nods somewhere in the periphery of Neymar’s vision and Leo’s fingers slide into him so hard and fast he cries out, thinking, _what a game what a horrible game I hope we make it out alive_.

Neymar wants to fall back against Dani’s lap and let his eyes slide shut so he can just feel, but he can’t do it, he’s addicted to Leo like this, pushing his hips up to meet Leo’s fingers and his eyes on every thrust. 

“You can use your tongue too,” Rafa tells Leo, from where he’s moved to sit a little ways behind him on the floor, but Neymar says, “No, I’ll come,” almost scared by the idea of it, the prospect of an end.

Leo says nothing, just keeps the rhythm going, fingers softer inside of Neymar after that one hard start. He’s rubbing at Neymar’s prostate enough to keep him desperate, making Neymar’s lashes blink and flutter like something out of control. There’s a familiar expression on Leo’s face, that concentration of doing a job well, the way he looks before a penalty or on a dribble when he leaves four defenders in the dust. It’s art for him, it’s the impossible that he can conquer and that’s how he’s looking at Neymar now. 

_I love you_ , Neymar thinks, delirious. _Why can’t I stop?_

It’s only when Dani strokes a hand over his forehead and says, “Hush,” that Neymar realizes he said it out loud. 

“He’s ready,” Rafa says abruptly, nudging Leo with his knee. “He can take you now, definitely.”

Ney glances over and sees that Rafa’s got his own jeans undone, braced on the ground with his arm snaked behind him, fingering himself with the leftover lube. He makes it look so easy, arching perfectly every time, head tilted back, long, dark neck exposed to bite. The silky swaths of cloth from his bandana slide down his back and brush at his arms. It’s transfixing to watch, the smooth rhythm of Rafa’s body moving with itself, and they’re all looking at him now: Marc gaping from the floor, Jordi on the bench with his erection pressed against Marc’s back, Ivan stroking absently at Marc’s hair. And Luis, lolling by Neymar’s knee like some unaffected but amused third party who doesn’t quite belong and doesn’t need to. Only Leo doesn’t bother looking back, fixated on Neymar like a planet orbiting the sun, which is funny, Neymar thinks, because usually Leo is the sun and he’s the meteor that crumbles to smithereens from getting too close. 

There’s movement from the edge of the room, bleach-blonde hair and a baby face, Ter Stegen coming for Rafa like a real-life sculpture of a Greek god. Ter looks frazzled but at peace with it, arm red from where he’s been biting it to keep quiet all this time. Rafa arches more when he sees him coming over, putting on a show or maybe just really wanting it, sweating a little from under his bandana and starting to get breathless.

Ter falls to his knees in a fluid, goal-keeper movement, legs wide enough to spread outside of Rafa’s, leaving his lap free like an invitation he’s not sure how to voice. Rafa locks his eyes on Ter, fucking himself on his fingers and biting back sounds. Ter wipes his palms on his jeans, and Neymar suddenly remembers that for all his cool on the field, this boy is no older than himself.

“Touch me,” Rafa tells him, staring to loose control over his movements, finally approaching the state of recklessness that the rest of them already are in. “I know you want to, you always want to.” 

Ter leans forward, hands steady like they are around the ball, and grips at Rafa’s hips. It makes Rafa moan, unashamed, and move his fingers faster. Ter’s hands are huge against Rafa’s sides, pushing up his shirt to spread against his dark skin. 

“Keep going,” Rafa says, and Ter pulls him forward into that open space between his knees and knocks their foreheads together. Rafa squirms against him, mouth dropping open, feeding off the look in Ter’s eyes. Ter’s hands wind around to cup his ass, sliding below the waistline of Rafa’s boxers, feeling where Rafa’s fingers are moving in and out of himself. 

“You should fuck me,” Rafa gasps, and Ter is kissing him in reply, and they’re lost together, just like that, sealed in a different world where nobody can break them. 

Jealousy explodes in Neymar’s chest like an atom bomb, shaking him to the core. He sits up so fast his head spins. Leo stares up at him from between his legs, slick fingers slipping over Neymar’s thighs. He’s still looking at Neymar like he’s something magnetic that Leo can’t take his eyes away from, but what’s the point, Neymar thinks, what does it matter, since tomorrow it’ll all be gone.

“Are you going to do it?” Neymar demands. “Are you going to fuck me or not?”

Leo just blinks, suddenly small and childlike, the way the rest of the world sees him, not the hard, dangerous body that Neymar wants to drown inside. Furious, Neymar reaches out and grips at Leo’s hair, tugging until Leo’s eyes flash. “People would pay for me, don’t you fucking know that, people would kill, why won’t you, why won’t you,” Neymar says, and he’s crying all of a sudden, stupid, strange, and silent tears.

Leo wrenches his head from Neymar’s grip and stands up like a force of nature, this slender shadow of a man who commands them all. 

“I would,” Leo says, angry like someone who’s been robbed, and deadly. “I will.”

Ney stares at him. He feels like he’s been punched, all the air flooding from his chest, leaving him off balance and stunned. Leo stands over him, and Ney looks up like a kid searching for God. 

“I’ll do anything,” Leo says. “Don’t you understand? That’s why I can’t—why we can’t be—because it’s dangerous, Ney, because I have a life and I’d rip it apart for you and I’m afraid.”

The words hang in the air like smoke, stifling everything. Neymar stares and stares and tries to make sense of it. Leo looks so soft all of a sudden, so earnest. So good. 

“Say you love me,” Neymar says, grasping for threads. He never in a million years expects Leo to do it.

“I love you,” Leo says simply. 

“Okay,” Neymar says. He lets his eyes slide shut and hangs his head down, because he knows this is the end and he wants to spare Leo the guilt of watching him splinter.

“Ney,” Leo says softly, reaching to lift his chin, brush a finger over his lips. Neymar’s eyes flutter open unwilled. “I said I was afraid,” Leo mumbles. “I didn’t say it was over.”

He puts one warm hand under Neymar’s leg and lifts it up so his calf brushes at Leo’s waistline, bare skin and the itch of boxer shorts. Ney is pliant and weak, wondrous at the soft touch, bringing his hands up to roam against Leo’s chest, uncertain of what he’s being offered but willing to take it all. Leo lifts his other leg slowly to match, and then reaches down further, cupping under Ney’s ass, and hoists him into his arms so easily it takes Ney’s breath away. Neymar tangles his ankles behind Leo’s back, clinging to him like he does every single day on the field when one of them does something extraordinary and Leo sweeps him up like he’s the only thing on earth worth having. Neymar presses flush against him, bare chests sticking, hands tangling in Leo’s short hair. Nuzzles against his neck, heart hammering into Leo’s body so hard Leo can feel it, strokes at the back of Neymar’s head and murmurs: “Everything’s okay. You’re with me. I’ll take care of you.”

“Where?” Neymar says, too dazed by everything to understand. “When?”

“Always,” Leo says. 

They all stop to watch when Leo carries him away, even Rafa who’s climbed into Ter’s lap, riding him slow and mouthing at his blonde hair. Marc grins up at Neymar from the ground, and Ney wants to apologize for promising him head since he didn’t ever really mean the offer, but he realizes it’s all right, Marc doesn’t need it anyway, because he’s got Jordi and Ivan now. They’re on their knees, one in front of Marc and one behind, stripping him of his clothes and passing him between them, kissing him and each other over his shoulder. Luis sits lazily against the lockers and gives them orders like Dani was doing before. Neymar presses his face into Leo’s skin and feels paradise. 

Leo carries him slowly to the back of the locker room, through an archway to the training room next door, where there are padded mats on the ground and blanket rolls where Leo lowers Neymar’s head. There’s a door too, and a latch, and after Leo lays Neymar down on his back on the mats, he goes to close it. 

Neymar sees Dani smiling at him from the locker room outside, and he wants to do something to explain how thankful he is, but there’s no time. Leo swings the door shut carefully, locking them together in this dim light, this perfection. 

Leo presses his body down on Neymar’s and slides into him slowly, keeping his fingers on Ney’s face, reading every little thing in his eyes, every second of pain, every time he hits pleasure.

“Does it hurt, should I stop, Ney, look at me—”

But Neymar is shaking his head, at loss for the words to tell him that this time he’s crying because it’s bliss. 

“Thank you,” Ney gasps, when Leo finds a rhythm and starts to make it really good, when he’s kissing him through it, when he gets a hand around Neymar’s cock between their stomachs and starts to bring him to the edge.

“No,” Leo says, between thrusts and swallowing Ney’s breakable noises in his mouth. “I love you, don’t you get it?”

Neymar’s whole body convulses when he comes, trembling like a kid who has never done this before. Leo holds him so close that there’s no separation between them, no boundary between the start of one body and another, and nothing between their souls. Leo comes a second later, face buried in Neymar’s shoulder, crying out. 

“You’re going to leave me,” Neymar says, dizzily, when it’s over. Leo is rolled on his side, cradling Ney against his chest like he’s still protecting him from something. Maybe reality. “You’ll have to. I understand.”

Leo kisses his sweaty forehead and smoothes his hair, eyes crinkling a little when he smiles. “No,” Leo says softly. “I’m going to stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> okay guys i barely ever write fic and i've never tried writing smut before so this was an adventure! all that drunk celebrating at the Camp Nou was screaming for an orgy - with a neymessi focus obviously, because HELLO. neymessi!! it seems like a lot of fic tends to give them a fairly upbeat dynamic, but i sort of went the other way. thanks to the amazing nightrose for beta'ing. title from the zella day song ace of hearts.


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